The Russian Seduction (40 page)

“I’m sorry to say I didn’t catch your name,
gospadin
?” Though she used the Russian honorific, she switched to English to see if he’d follow. She was developing a hunch about this man, and when his eyes narrowed, she knew she’d been right.

His thugs loomed behind him, their ruddy faces blank. Clearly no clue what she’d just said, and no interest in talking either. Well, she didn’t suppose their employer—whoever he was—kept them around for their dazzling wit.

Silently the stranger studied her with those frightening eyes, slender brows raised, as though perhaps she’d surprised him. But he replied in perfect English, his accent undetectable. Far more fluent in English than she was in Russian, and he had to have known that when he’d addressed her in Russian. A bit of a bastard, but he was also clever, and therefore dangerous.

“Unfortunately, we have very little time for social niceties, Your Excellency—”

This time,
she
managed to interrupt
him
. “There’s no need to be so formal. Most of my colleagues simply call me Dr. Rossi. You’re welcome to do the same.”

Awareness flickered in his gaze at this unsubtle reminder of her credentials: PhD in organic chemistry, her research on chemical defense with the U.S. Army at Edgewood Arsenal, then her high-profile post at the Organization for Prohibition of Chemical Weapons. Not to mention her current assignment.

“I’m sorry, but I seem to have missed your name?” she prompted.

Her interrogator was still studying her with narrowed eyes, trying to figure her out. At last, he inclined his head, mouth twitching with the hint of a smile. “I’m Nikolai Ivanovich Markov, from the security office. I was dispatched by Dr. Belov to convey his profound apologies for your cancelled visit.”

The security office.
No more than a thin cover for his real affiliation, then. The man had just told her, without saying so directly, that he worked for the Federal Security Bureau, the Russian successor agency to the KGB. And, in her experience, there was no unpleasant or unethical trick those spooks wouldn’t stoop to.

Reflexively, she stepped back. Then, tamping down her qualms, she extended her gloved hand for a courteous shake. After a pause so brief it was barely noticeable, his grip encased her fingers, his hand sheathed in sleek black leather. Despite the layers between them, a flare of heat—survival instinct—made her tingle. Shivering, she buried her hand in her coat pocket.

“Ilya,” Nikolai Markov said calmly, still watching her. “Take Dr. Rossi’s suitcase and attaché case to the train.”

Swiftly, she slipped in front of the hired muscle, and blocked their path to her suitcase. She tightened her grip on her attaché case, not about to let it vanish the way her purse had. They’d have to be one hell of a lot more forceful to separate her from the official documents she carried, but she hoped to avoid that outcome.

Donning a professional smile, she extended her free hand. “I’m pleased to meet you,
gospadin
…?”

“Just Ilya, Dr. Rossi,” said Nikolai Markov. “He’s a man of few words.”

Of course, without a surname, she wouldn’t be able to look him up, using her contacts, when she returned to Moscow. No doubt any name they gave her would be false, but sometimes an alias turned up back at Langley.

Meanwhile, Ilya-with-no-last-name hulked over her, features buried under his muffler, gray eyes like dirty ice staring through her with a chilling lack of interest. This thug could break her in two with his bare hands. Thankfully, his orders were simply to assist with her luggage.

When he didn’t accept her hand, Skylar kept smiling, and pivoted toward his partner. A scar snaked through the rough terrain of this one’s pitted face, but he gave his name gruffly as Artur—again with no surname, of course.

“
Dr
. Rossi,” Nikolai Markov said gently, “your train departs in one minute thirty seconds. Go aboard now, please.”

Sucking down another lungful of icy oxygen, she gripped her attaché case with both hands, in case they tried to wrest it from her by brute force.

“According to the schedule Anton Belov provided, Mr. Markov, my first meeting is with the mayor of Khimgorod at eight a.m., which is less than three hours from now. Even if Dr. Belov is unavailable, I’m sure the mayor can resolve any logistical questions that may arise.”

For a heartbeat, Nikolai Markov stared at her with those opaque black eyes. Perhaps she’d succeeded at last in surprising him, though his demeanor gave nothing away.

“I am afraid Dr. Belov’s…indisposition has resulted in the cancellation of your entire itinerary—from your meetings to your hotel reservation. Go aboard now, please, Dr. Rossi. This is no place for diplomatic negotiation.”

Without engaging in a physical scuffle, she couldn’t prevent Artur from hoisting her suitcase, as though it weighed nothing. Well, she could work without a change of clothing if necessary, and pick up local toiletries in town. What mattered was that she still had her documents.

“I’m not leaving, Mr. Markov.” Skylar looked him straight in the eye. “These discussions are a top priority for my government, and I’m operating under official instructions from the highest level. I’ve seen no documentation to indicate your own government has withdrawn its approval for my visit. Moreover, my tickets were purchased with U.S. taxpayer dollars, and funds for my lodging were already wired to the hotel. I’m committed to these meetings, even if it means sleeping on a couch in the lobby. I’d like to go to the hotel now, please, so I can freshen up before the mayor.”

As if to underscore her words, the train jerked forward, its carriages clanking and rattling as the locomotive did its work.
Too late now to send me back
. Another indication that Markov, whatever his agenda, wasn’t acting under official orders—or else the train would have waited.

Still, a sense of mounting apprehension made her scalp crawl. All too clearly, someone didn’t want her here. Maybe the FSB had decided her presence was a liability. Wouldn’t be the first time the Russian spooks and the Foreign Ministry had disagreed.

“This is unfortunate, Dr. Rossi,” Nikolai Markov murmured.

His dark eyes shifted to Ilya. Jerking a nod as some unspoken message flashed between them, the goon trudged forward. Violating her diplomatic immunity from seizure, his hard hand closed on her shoulder. A coil of anxiety tightened her lungs. People had disappeared in Siberia before—millions of them, in fact. Officially, Khimgorod itself didn’t even exist. She’d called her office from Novosibirsk, but the Russians could claim she’d never even arrived here…

She did her best to conceal her qualms. The secret to negotiating with Russians was embedded in the old deodorant commercial.
Never let ‘em see you sweat.

“Artur,” Nikolai Markov said, “take our American guest’s suitcase to the car.”

Pivoting, Markov glided toward the only break in the top-security barricade, where a concrete guard shanty, bathed in harsh light, guarded the station exit. The silver gleam of a cell phone flashed as he tucked the device against his ear and muttered into it.

Skin prickling with apprehension, she followed, her shoulder still gripped by Ilya as he quick-marched her from behind. Ahead, Nikolai Markov crossed the treacherous platform with balletic grace, stepping lightly as a deer across the black ice—almost mesmerizing, in a way. The man looked and moved like no security watchdog she’d ever encountered. And, thanks to her father, she’d encountered the best.

At least he’d agreed to bring her into town, which moved her one step closer to her goal. The chemical complex was a thirty-mile drive past the city itself, according to the satellite imagery. As they approached the station exit, Markov snapped the phone shut and dropped back beside her.

“I’ve modified your travel arrangements, Dr. Rossi. Although your stay will, of necessity, last no longer than 2313 hours this evening when the next train arrives, all guests are required to adhere to the laws and regulations that govern this closed city.”

“I’d expect nothing else.” Discreetly, she tried to slip free of Ilya. But the hired muscle only tightened his grip. Despite the insulating layers between them, her shoulder began to ache.

Markov’s gaze flickered toward her, only for a heartbeat.

“Ilya,” he said quietly. Just like that, his trained watchdog released her.

Skylar resisted the impulse to rub her aching shoulder, and returned to the business at hand. “I’ve been thoroughly briefed on the laws that govern the closed cities—”

“Given the possible consequences of any deviation, allow me to refresh your memory, Dr. Rossi.” As they approached the barbed-wire fence, his gaze swept the perimeter. “No photographs are allowed anywhere in the city or its environs. If you disregard this rule, your camera will be confiscated and destroyed, and you may be subject to legal penalties, possibly including detainment.”

“I understand.” The weight of her mobile phone, with its embedded camera, seemed suddenly heavy in her briefcase.

“No mobile telephones.” For a breath, his eyes flickered toward her, as though he’d read her mind. “No PDAs or any other communications device. If you disregard this rule, the device will be confiscated and destroyed, and you will be subject to legal penalties, possibly including detainment.”

“I understand perfectly, Mr. Markov. This isn’t the first closed city I’ve visited.”

“No laptop computer,” he continued, “no radio equipment, calculator, or other electronic device is allowed to visitors anywhere in the city. If you disregard this rule—”

“My equipment will be confiscated and destroyed, and I’ll probably be thrown in jail. I catch the drift,” she said lightly, working to interject a note of humor. They hadn’t gotten off to an auspicious start. But if she intended to succeed, she needed to build goodwill and lay the foundation for future cooperation with the local officials, including the security office. “I believe I understand the seriousness of our situation.”

“For your sake, I hope so.” He slanted her an ironic glance. “Immediately upon arrival at the hotel, you’ll be required to surrender your mobile phone and laptop, that automatic quartz watch you’re wearing, your alarm clock, PDA, and any other electronic devices secreted among your possessions. Your telephone may be used in the lobby, if a representative of our security office monitors your communications.”

“I understand.” Carefully, she stepped around a patch of icy ground. If she went sprawling, she doubted the charming Ilya would catch her. Then they’d be airlifting
her
to the hospital in Novosibirsk.

The security measures were identical to those in a dozen closed cities—usually locations where Russia was performing covert nuclear, biological, or chemical weapons activities. They didn’t appear on any Russian map, but they turned up in the satellite photos—far too extensive to camouflage. In fact, the existence of these top-secret regulations at Khimgorod, a city where the Russians insisted they’d never done military work, told Skylar her hunch had been right. Something nasty was going on at the Khimgorod Chemical Defense Complex.

“I hope you do understand, Dr. Rossi.” Halting at the guard shanty, Nikolai Markov pivoted toward her. “Any violation of these rules will result in your deportation at minimum, and your Russian visa may be permanently revoked. In addition, you may face other… consequences. Regrettably, one can never be certain, in such a provincial region, whether the local
militsia
will recognize diplomatic immunity—or choose to ignore it.”

“That would make my government very unhappy, Mr. Markov,” she said softly, and slipped past him to the guard window.

Now the bastard was openly threatening her. No doubt he believed, like many Russians in this patriarchal society, that a woman was easily intimidated. Sooner or later he’d realize, as his counterparts in Moscow had done, that underestimating her was a mistake.

She removed her black diplomatic passport from the travel pouch that hung around her neck, inside her jacket—a security precaution that had paid off in spades when her purse was snatched. As she passed it through the tiny window to the unsmiling matron who manned the post, the back of her neck tingled.

Markov stood at her shoulder, clearly intent on the exchange, close enough for her to feel his warm breath brushing her nape.

“Skylar Dane Rossi, age thirty-five,” he murmured. The unpleasant woman behind the glass darted them a suspicious look as she thumbed through the passport. “Named after your father, if I’m not mistaken. The same Dane Rossi who served five years in your American prisons for illicit arms dealing, wasn’t it, before his lawyers overturned the conviction? According to some rather unflattering coverage in
Newsweek
, he was convicted of selling chemical weapons precursors to North Korea.”

Burrowed deep in her pocket for warmth, her hand knotted. This wasn’t the first time someone had connected her with her notorious father, but it
was
the first time a Russian had confronted her with it during a diplomatic mission. Usually, they were hungry for the foreign assistance funds she oversaw, and eager to engage in peaceful research with ICSI.